


Bluebird

by mintboy (orphan_account)



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - Frontier, Angst, Bandits & Outlaws, Cowboys, Forbidden Love, Humanstuck, Implied/Referenced Abuse, M/M, Murder, POV First Person, Prostitution, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-14
Updated: 2018-11-14
Packaged: 2019-08-23 10:20:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16617113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/mintboy
Summary: Dave makes money in his brother's saloon by entertaining gay ranchers and outlaws that come in for drinks. However, he's always dreaming of a new life he was promised a long, long time ago.For my boyfriend. Miss you!





	Bluebird

**Author's Note:**

  * For [KittyMotor](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KittyMotor/gifts).



It was a bit of a dangerous thing, to be in love with an outlaw – especially for a young, semi-respectable person like myself. Outlaws are criminals, thieves; and certainly not welcome around our parts.

Blackridge is a quaint town surrounded by small farms and the wide, open west. Full of sweet, old ladies and hard-working farmers and tradesmen, it’s the perfect place to start one’s life in the frontier. It’s got a grand total of ten houses, a post office, a sheriff’s office, a general store, a church, a livery, and the saloon. _Our_ saloon – the only place an outlaw can find refuge in Blackridge, because my brother knows they’re the only people he can tousle with behind the building at dawn in exchange for letting them stay in the rooms upstairs.

They come in, stay a while, buy drinks round-the-clock, hire women, and get into fights; all the stuff my brother just lives off of – especially since he’s making money. And I get my fair share of the cut, too, of course. You see, my brother has a lot of eligible ladies hanging around his saloon, ones that whisk the outlaws and ranchers up into the un-let bedrooms upstairs. And, I might not be a lady, but not all of the men we get are into women. No one really has a problem with that, of course; it’s not uncommon around these parts to take fancy to a man – and a lot of the visitors to our saloons take fancy to me, being the common ‘type’ of the rather burly, muscular folk who wander inside.

I don’t mind the business – being a punk to these men isn’t boring, and I certainly enjoy the money … as well as the little gifts some of them bring after visiting time and time again. It’s just that I got a taste of more, once – and I’ve been waiting for that feeling to whisk me away ever since.

But, I digress.

I crush a partially-extinguished cigarette under my heel, leaning up against the bar. Next to me are a crowd of my brother’s show-girls. And, being the only show-boy in this joint, I dress like them, for the most part. I just don’t bother with caking on the makeup.

The black and red dress I’m wearing falls off my shoulders a little, just a bit too big on the top, though the corset holds it firmly onto my body. It spills down into layers of frills, framing my thin legs, which are wrapped in fishnet tights. The heels are the final touch, bright red and so high that I wobble a bit when I walk in them.

“Any money today?” my brother’s rough voice rings in my ears, and I turn to look behind the bar, propping my elbows up on it. His gaze is cold. He’s cleaning a glass with a stained rag, the white sleeves of his button-up rolled cleanly to his elbows.

“No,” I reply, straightening my back and running a hand through my hair, which is slightly greasy. I plan to wash up tomorrow morning, given I have the chance. It takes a while to haul the bucket over from the river. It would be useless to do it tonight, though; word is that some of the outlaws will ride through town in the coming hours, looking for a place to stay.

“Isn’t that one of your regulars over there?” my brother points out, pulling his hand out of the glass and gesturing to one of the poker tables with his rag. I glance over, pursing my lips. Yeah, he’s right – one of my regulars is seated at the table, his eyes fixated on his cards, which I can see aren’t very good from my spot at the bar. He’s nice enough, but very gruff and reticent, which is a little frustrating for me. I sort of live for the attention these men give me, sometimes, and he’s one of the quieter ones.

“Well?” my brother urges, “you don’t make anything just standing there and looking pretty.”

“I don’t see you serving drinks,” I retort, and he raises an eyebrow at me, lips pulled into a tight line, which is enough to shut me up. I don’t need to pad out more of my hours helping him practice his fighting in the back room.

I saunter over to the table, letting my hips find their way into a careful sashay. I lean over the regular’s chair, coiling one of my arms around his shoulder. His shirt is dirtied with the dust from outside, and he smells vaguely of manure.

“Rude of you to not say hello,” I purr into his ear, and he makes a sort of grunt, shrugging his shoulder. I pull away, mostly, my hand lingering on his other shoulder as I use my other to drum my fingers on the poker table.

“Hello, Dave,” says one of the other poker players, who I recognize as a man I’d studied in Church with for a couple years – John. He comes by often, but mostly to lose at poker. I give him a coy wave, before turning back to my regular. I don’t remember his name, in all honestly; but it doesn’t matter.

“Not going to say anything?” I prod his chest gently with my finger.

“Don’t have the money for you today,” he finally responds, folding his hand.

“I’m willing to negotiate,” is my quick reply as I wave a hand, “you know I’m flexible.”

“In more ways than one, apparently,” someone else at the table quips, voice sharp and punctuated by an inebriated laugh. I ignore it.

“Not today,” my regular responds, “go bug someone else.”

Sighing, I back off, waving goodbye to the other men at the table before making my way back over to the bar. I push myself up on one of the stools, glancing over at my brother, who is chatting with someone just a few feet away while he serves them a drink. I’ve never really thought of him as a very talkative guy, but I suppose being a bartender pulls that kind of thing out of you. On the other hand, with me, when not barking orders at me, he punctuates our relationship with a sort of uncomfortable silence. In fact, it’s less of a familial relationship and more of an unsettling state of being.

Once he notices me, he walks back over, stretching and unbuttoning a couple of the buttons on his vest. He gives me an expectant, questioning look, but says nothing – I know well, by now, that he’s asking for an answer, but forcing me to provide the context for myself. He once told me, in a moment of retracted-stoicism, that it was intended to help train me read the expressions of my clients, as it was important that I was well versed in their taciturn nature.

Though the clarification had been nice, it was another revelation for me, pointing towards the fact that I had been – and always will be – a mere vehicle for my brother’s needs being fulfilled. Whether it be perfecting his own fighting abilities, making money, or getting out his own anger. That was my growing theory on it, anyway – and despite this fraction of self-awareness, I always find myself stirring in feelings of guilt and self-doubt over our relationship, or lack there-of.

“Says he hasn’t got enough for me today,” I respond, tapping a beat on the grimy, wooden surface of the bar, “I told him I’d negotiate, but he wasn’t having it. Must’ve spent all his money paying off his bounty again.”

My brother shakes his head. That’s not a good sign. He turns his back to me and walks to the other end of the bar, and, yeah, I was right. I internally curse at myself. I glance back over at my regular, still playing poker. If I had tried harder, perhaps I could’ve avoided this … but there’s no use, now. Even if I were to convince him, whatever my brother has decided is now set in stone. I run a hand over my face. No matter how many clients I get tonight, when the outlaws come through, I’ll probably have to train afterwards – which, if I don’t do well enough, could set me out of action for at least a week, waiting for the aftermath to heal away.

I rub a thick scar that stretches across the knuckle of my right pointer finger. I’ve never really understood how I was still charming with the heavy scarring – after all, freckles can be cute, and blemishes are commonplace – but the wide array of scars that taint my skin from head to toe can’t be attractive. I had spoken to a rather distant cousin of mine about it over letter, once – Rose, who lives out East – and she reminded me that many of my clients spend most of their time alone with their own ‘kind of men’, and I’m somewhat of a refreshing change. I suppose what she meant by that is that the scars simply don’t matter.

The day moves rather slowly, and my brother is sated from further silent threats by his girls bringing in change. I get a client at around half past six; some tradesman who is taking refuge from the blinding, Western heat. He’s clean shaven, smells of some sharp cologne, and wearing a fancy suit under his dust-coat. He makes small talk with me about his business in the East, and how his adventures out in the West are just a ‘temporary thing’ while he sorts out his relationship with his wife. I nod along as he vents to me, counting his money next to the bar. I express my sympathies, handing the wad of cash to my brother, and then show the man upstairs.

He’s nothing special. He’s overly gentle, rather vanilla, and the encounter doesn’t last long. After cleaning myself up the best I can and redressing, I leave him in the bedroom and head back downstairs. I make myself comfy on a couch by the staircase, resting my aching limbs.

The pianist arrives at seven, and he’s joined by a young woman with a guitar. She attracts a lot of attention, but she’s not like my brother’s girls. She’s a farm hand, a _real_ respectable young lady, and she just comes by to accompany the elderly pianist on days when she doesn’t have to work late.

Once the musicians arrive, the bar suddenly becomes alight with energy. Every poker table is filled, the bar is bustling with people. A little crowd forms by the piano as people begin to dance along to the melody. A tiredness sweeps over me, however. I didn’t sleep the night before, and I had been training with my brother before the saloon opened that morning. I close my eyes, leaning back against the seat cushion.

It must be around eight or nine when I wake up, and it’s because someone sits beside me on the couch, wrapping his arm around my shoulder. I yawn, bringing a hand to my mouth, and blink the drowsiness from my eyes, letting them fall on the man beside me. His hair is covered by a thick-brimmed pinch-front hat, and he’s got a grey bandana covering his nose and mouth. He smells like sweat and dust.

My first thought is to brush him off, wanting more sleep, but as the fact I haven’t made much money today crosses my mind, I immediately give the man a friendly smile.

“Been reading Whitman?” I ask, coy.

He nods, and I want to groan. Is he not going to speak the _whole_ time? Great. He reaches into his pocket, handing me a wad of cash. I raise an eyebrow, counting it carefully – though I don’t recall ever seeing this man before, he knows my exact asking price. I shrug it off, telling him to wait with a swift movement of my finger as I go and hand the money to my brother behind the bar. As I pass the drinking patrons, I notice most of them are outlaws – that explains the ‘mysterious’ nature of my client.

I walk back over, taking him by the hand and pulling him upstairs into one of the empty bedrooms. I let him wander inside first, and as I turn and close the door behind us, he finally speaks.

“Dave?” he asks, and I turn, surprised. I know that voice. The man removes his bandana and hand, running a hand through his messy curls. His features are soft and kind, and there’s a fiery light in his brown eyes that captivates me.

“Karkat?” my voice is a breath. There’s a moment of silence between us, before I take a couple careful steps forward – which burst into a run. I throw my arms around him, burying my face in his shoulder.

When I pull away, he puts his hands on my cheeks, thumbing over my freckled skin. His smile is warm.

“I never thought you’d come back,” I whisper, feeling tears well up in my eyes, “aren’t you wanted in Blackridge?”

“Of course I came back, idiot,” he replies, voice as gentle as his fingers against my face, “I don’t break my promises.”

I let out a breathy laugh, pulling him in for a kiss. It’s soft, sweet – and a feeling I had missed for such a long time.

Two years ago, Karkat Vantas and The Damnation had wandered into Blackridge, looking to wreck a little havoc. The night before they had caused enough ruckus to put a bounty over their heads, my brother had let them stay in the saloon. I had been distressed, that day – injured from training the day before, I couldn’t make any money from my regular patrons, which meant the clock was ticking until my brother would have me train again.

Karkat had paid off my brother to have me for the whole night, but had sit me down in the bedroom and just … spoke to me. He told me of his adventures, of how he had found his way into The Damnation. Somehow, over those hours, we fell in love – shared kisses, held each other. As we sat there, his hand in my hair, he promised me that one day, he would return and whisk me away – he would leave The Damnation, and we would make a new life together.

Then, the next day, The Damnation failed their attempted robbery, and left with a bounty over their heads. I hadn’t seen Karkat since.

I pressed our foreheads together, taking a deep breath.

“How long are you here?” I dare to ask.

“As long as you want to stay,” he murmurs in response, pulling me to sit next to him on the foot of the bed, “I’ve come to take you away.”

My eyes widen, and I take his hands in mine, pulling them away from my face.

“You’re kidding,” I breathe.

“No,” he shakes his head, “I even told The Damnation that I’m quitting, leaving with you. I just came with them to see if you were still here.”

“I would’ve waited forever,” I reply instantly, “you know that.”

He laughs, and it’s like music.

“Well, what do you say, then?”

I nod enthusiastically.

“There’s a back staircase just down the hall. I don’t need anything, I’ll – I’ll just go in this.”

“You can wear my dustcoat,” Karkat offers, standing, “it’s with my horse.”

I nod, slipping off my heels. They’re uncomfortable anyway. I take Karkat by the hand, leading him out of the bedroom and into the hall. We moved quickly and quietly, our footsteps drowned out by the music and voices coming from downstairs. We head to the back staircase, rushing down it and into the cool night air.

When we get to his horse, there’s a figure standing there.

My brother.

“David,” he says, his voice harsh and cold.

I freeze, feeling fear rushing over my body. Karkat steps in front of me – but that only makes me feel worse. Karkat might be an outlaw, but my brother is at least two times the size of him.

I hear the cocking of a gun, and my eyes snap to Karkat’s hands. He’s holding a pistol. I hold my breath.

“We’re leaving,” he announces, “let us go.”

My brother, unarmed – for once in his life – raises his arms, stepping away from the horse. Karkat beckons the animal over, helping me up and throwing his dust-coat over my shoulders before climbing on himself. The horse whinnies as Karkat spins it to start in the direction of the next town over. My brother stands just feet away, his hands clenched in fists at his side. I can’t meet his eyes, knowing the anger that lies in them. It’s silent. With him, it’s always silent. And when he speaks, my heart feels like ice.

“I _will_ find you,” he says to me, coolly. I can feel myself shaking.

Then, suddenly, the horse jumps slightly as a gunshot rings out in the quiet, night air. Instinctively, I close my eyes, tensing against Karkat’s back as I feel the recoil. My ears ring.

“Hold on, Dave, you’re going to be okay,” Karkat’s voice breaks the dull screech in my head.

I open my eyes – my brother is on the ground, and there’s yelling from inside the saloon. Karkat shot him. Karkat _killed_ my brother. I hold on tightly to his sides. Air rushes around me as the horse starts to gallop. As Karkat rides into the night, the town disappears behind us, becoming nothing more than a distant group of lights.

I close my eyes, pressing my head against Karkat’s back, and try to beckon my breathing to calm. Despite the fear rushing through my head, the warmth of love blooms in my heart.

“It’s okay,” I hear Karkat say, over the rushing wind, “we’re okay.”

I take a deep breath. He’s right – it had to happen, at some point, for me to be safe, for everything to be okay.

This is the new life I’ve been waiting for.

**Author's Note:**

> A few cultural notes: 
> 
> First, being "homosexual" wasn't really a concept in this area at this point in time, so it would be pretty normal for patrons to be interested in guys like Dave, and for no one to care about it. 
> 
> Second, asking if someone liked or read Walt Whitman was a pretty common way of seeing if someone was interested in gay sex.
> 
> This fic is named after the song "Bluebird" by Beach House. Per usual, doesn't have much to do with the story, but it's a good song!


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